It was only a few days later when she came to my room with a letter she had received from Harriet.
“Harriet is going away,” she said. “Some friend of hers has offered her a palazzo in Venice. She may be away several months.”
I lowered my eyes. I knew what was coming.
“She is very fond of you, Priscilla. She always was. She is suggesting that she take you with her.”
“Take me with her!” My voice sounded flat. It was difficult to play my part before my mother. “Listen to what she says:
I must have mentioned the Carpori family to you. I met them years ago during my stage career. The Contessa was always a friend of mine. Now she has offered me their palazzo in Venice. I did visit it once and it is quite a pleasant spot. The fact is I think they would like me to inhabit the place while they are away.
Gregory thinks it would be a good idea. He will spend part of the time with me. It will be rather a quiet life, I fancy. Now I am going to ask a great favour of you. Could you spare me our dear Priscilla? Perhaps it is selfish of me to ask but I really do think a change is what she needs just now. She has suffered a great shock so recently and I myself was quite worried about her when she was here a short while ago. This unfortunate matter has hit her hard, I fear. I believe this jaunt might be exactly what she needs. Could you put it to her? Ask her what she feels about it. Of course, she may hate the idea—in which case, please don’t press it. I should like the choice to be entirely hers …
She stopped reading and looked at me. I stammered: “Venice! A palazzo!”
My mother was wrinkling her brows. I knew that she wanted the best for me and would be wondering whether Harriet was right and this trip would help me to recover from the blow which she realized had shaken me severely.
“For … how long?” I asked.
My mother looked back at the letter. “She doesn’t say, but I daresay it would be for several months. I doubt she would plan to go so far for a short stay. And she says Gregory will be coming back to England and she will be alone for a while. What do you think about it, Priscilla?”
I was silent for a while. I must not seem too eager.
I said slowly: “I … don’t know. It’s so…”
“Unexpected,” finished my mother. “But one can always rely on Harriet to do the unexpected.”
After a brief silence I said: “I think I should like to get away.”
She nodded. “And you are very fond of Harriet and she of you … as fond as she is able to be of anyone apart from herself.”
I had to defend her. “She has always been good to me. Gregory and Benjie adore her.”
“She has special gifts. So you really feel you would like to go?”
“Yes, I would. I should love to see Venice. I believe it’s very beautiful.”
“It is said to be.”
“Mother … what about Christabel?”
She frowned slightly. “If you were going to be away you would still have to continue with your lessons.”
“I should like to go alone,” I said.
“I will see what your father says,” she answered.
I felt my lips curl bitterly. “Oh, he will not care what I do. I dare swear he’ll be glad to be rid of me.”
“You don’t understand him, Priscilla.”
“I do. I understand perfectly.”
She could see I was becoming emotional so she just shook her head, kissed me and left me.
My father agreed that I should go to Venice with Harriet. There was one stipulation. Christabel should come with me. I remarked bitterly that he seemed more concerned for Christabel’s welfare than he was for mine.
“Nonsense,” retorted my mother. “He wants her to go for your benefit.”
I did not argue the matter. I thought how fortunate I was to have Harriet, and sometimes I would break into a cold sweat wondering what I should have done if she had not been at hand to suggest her preposterous plan. But because she was Harriet it did not seem impossible to carry it out, as it would have done if anyone else had thought of it.
It was now the end of February and Harriet wrote constantly of what she called “plans.” I was sure she enjoyed writing these letters which she couched in innuendo—references which I could understand and no one else could. Intrigue was the breath of life to her.
We were going to leave at the end of March.
“A very appropriate time,” she wrote, meaning that the existence of my baby, conceived in mid-January, could without a great deal of subterfuge be kept secret until that time. “It will be springtime, the time of growth when the flowers and the trees begin to blossom. We shall be there through the summer, which I believe is delightful, and the sunshine more reliable than it is here.”
“I believe,” said my mother, “that you really are getting excited about this trip.”
“Venice is said to be so beautiful and I long to see it.”
She was pleased. I knew she was thinking that I was getting over what she thought of as “that unfortunate episode.” Christabel, too, was excited. They seemed to have forgotten—though I did not—that she had an unfortunate episode of her own to get over.
I was concerned about her, though. Sooner or later she would have to be in on the secret. I had told her nothing yet. I wanted to wait until I had consulted Harriet.
There was news from Court. Titus Oates was losing his importance. People were growing less afraid of criticizing him. He had made a big mistake in talking so disparagingly about the Duke of York and in such a way that it appeared he was preparing to make him his next victim.
“He is a fool,” said my father, “if he thinks the King would see the end of his own brother. Oates should have realized what dangerous grounds he was on when he tried to attack the Queen. The King showed it clearly. It seems to me the man is riding for a fall.”
I hoped so with all my heart, and then I felt bitterly angry because it was too late to save Jocelyn and my happiness.
There was comfort, though, in thinking that this wicked man who had caused such misery might now be seeing the end of that power which had been bestowed on him in such a ridiculous manner. It seemed incredible that Parliament could have made the Duke of Monmouth responsible for his safety, the Lord Chamberlain for his lodging and the Lord Treasurer for his food and such necessities. I had heard that he had three servants in constant attendance and two or three gentlemen—after the manner of royalty—to wait on him and wrangle over the honour of holding the basin for him to wash.
But as such men will do, he had gone a little too far. Voices were being raised against him. My father brought home a pamphlet which had been written by Sir Robert L’Estrange that demanded to know how much longer the country was going to allow Titus Oates to drink the tears of widows and orphans.
“He has made many enemies, that man,” said my father. “They are waiting to rise against him.”
I fervently hoped they would rise, and this man who had brought misery to so many would be called upon to answer for his sins.
But that would not bring Jocelyn back.
At the middle of March we were ready to leave for Harriet’s. It had been decided that I should stay with her for two weeks before leaving for Italy.
I said good-bye to my mother who was very sad at my leaving. I think she realized how eager I was to be gone and she construed that as meaning that I was happier with Harriet than with her. I almost felt like telling her the real reason why I had to go away but stopped myself in time.
The countryside was beautiful on the day we set out. It was a sparkling morning, though still cold. Spring was in the air and a certain exultation in my heart. I was very much aware of the growing life within me, and although the way ahead was fraught with difficulties, I could not regret what had happened.